


i am not for you

by EternalEclipse



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Altered Mental States, Anal Sex, M/M, Minor Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Oral Sex, Other, Public Sex, Public Transportation, Tentacles, vaguely season 4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:42:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26447257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EternalEclipse/pseuds/EternalEclipse
Summary: Peter has a simple task for Martin. Bring a certain artefact to the Lukas home in Kent to exchange it for something to help with the Extinction. It was really just too bad that Peter's care directions were not very specific.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Tentacles
Comments: 2
Kudos: 36





	i am not for you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [python37](https://archiveofourown.org/users/python37/gifts).



> Python, I hope this brings you joy. This was definitely an interesting one.

A tape clicked on. Martin patted the recorder, but didn’t look up from the library requisitions paperwork. He knew how important these things were, having written enough of them himself, but Joey had never been very meticulous and weeding through his mess was a headache and a half. At least he didn’t have to see him anymore. Martin thought he might have even said that out loud. It was hard to tell these days whether he was talking or not. It wasn’t like the tape responded to him.

Still, these things usually clicked on for a reason. Martin spared a moment to hope it was just Jon being intrusive again, and not something about Joey’s requisitions, when Peter walked in, and his cracked personal bubble shattered like a teacup dropped from a fourth story window and run over by a passing lorry.

“Ah, Martin! I’ve come to see what progress you’ve made. It does seem like you’re doing quite well.”

“Go away, Peter,” Martin grumbled sharply, not taking his eyes off of the screen. Not everyone had equal access to literacy, he was _well_ aware, but someone whose first language was English and was working in a library of a research institution should know the difference between ‘definitely’ and ‘defiantly’! Was that such a high bar?

Peter, of course, took that as a cue to settle in. Contrary bastard. “Oh, _good_ , Martin. That is just the attitude we’re looking for.”

“ _Looking_ for?”

“A figure of speech, of course.” Peter waved off. “Language is—well. Generally not very necessary in the business we’re in, is it? It’s only useful when you’re dealing with normal people.”

Martin snorted with derision, deleting the current requisition with prejudice. Surely he’d never been that bad? “You’ve made it my job to deal with normal people so you don’t have to.”

“Have I? That seems like it would be rather rude of me, all things considered, and potentially detrimental to your development. Except, how many of them do you actually talk to on a regular basis anymore? I haven’t seen them knocking down this door to come speak to you.”

No, they hadn’t been. In fact, when Martin wanted to, he was pretty sure he could walk right in front of most his former coworkers without them noticing. Jon would probably still see him—but he couldn’t think about that. Redirect. “And?”

“It does sound exhausting. Perhaps I can find a way for you to take a break, a task that has to be carried out outside the Institute. Would you be interested?”

“Only if you sign the papers I’ve left on your desk!” Martin muttered. Aloud. Oops. He felt like he should be alarmed, but he was also pretty sure that whatever this was, it wasn’t Peter’s endgame for him, so he should probably survive it. He supposed he could learn more about what Peter wanted this way as well. Give him thirty seconds and he could justify his curiosity to himself like it was a rational choice, or a choice at all. Perhaps it wasn’t a surprise that he’d found himself in the Archives, with what he now knew. _Idiot._

While Martin glared unseeing at the computer screen, Peter’s grin grew. “Think of it as a test of your progress, Martin. I do hope you succeed.”

“Fine. What is it?”

Peter produced a lacquered wooden box. “I’ve set up an exchange with another member of the family. I believe she has something that would be useful against the Extinction. If you could bring this over to her, and return with her side of the deal, I would be much obliged.”

“And where is she?” _Please don’t say in the Lonely._

“Kent! I believe she is staying in Moorland House, the family home. Don’t worry, they won’t ask you to stay long if you don’t want to, but I’m sure they will let you rest a while if you need it.”

“Great. I’m expensing the transportation costs to the Institute.”

“That’s not a problem. Now, you might want to leave early, get a good night’s rest, and start there tomorrow. I’ll let them know to be expecting you.”

“Fine.” Martin clicked the save button on the document. The requisitions would wait a couple more days and his concentration wasn’t going to be worth mentioning when more depended on figuring out Peter’s game than the relative demerits of his former coworkers. He grabbed for the box, but Peter held it out of reach.

“You’ve been doing well, but overnight may be a bit of a stretch with this artefact. Better for you to stop by in the morning.”

Martin breathed in, and out. No use in arguing, so silence was all he could do to show his irritation. Not that Peter cared, of course. If anything, it would make him that much more smug, that much more likely to believe in his own narrative. A useful enough perception for Martin to live with yet another posh educated rich man looking down his long nose at him.

Martin closed the screen, picked up his bag, and walked right out the door, projecting irritation at all the world. He also did not want to be noticed, both because he had better things to worry about than other people, and because Peter was probably still watching, given how many cameras Elias had set up in the Institute and on its grounds.

It could only be a sign of his increasing Lonely-aligned power that he was able to avoid Rosie’s sharp gaze. Rosie, and all the people on his way home. He almost didn’t swipe his card for the Tube because he doubted anyone would call him on it, but habit won and he’d left his turnstile-jumping days behind as soon as he could afford the trips.

None of that left him in the greatest mood, however. It was relatively early in the day, but he was tired, bruised, and going in mental circles. It seemed like a risk, but a worthwhile one as he pulled a sleep mask over his eyes and tried to nap. Martin’s sleep was fitful and his dreams disjointed. A waste of time, perhaps, but time to sleep properly as a luxury.

He woke up, nine hours later, even more tired than when he went to sleep. At a quarter to three in the morning, he was willing to bet that that was a lonely feeling for this hour. Witching hour, except not quite, and too early for the first shift workers to be getting up. No one else felt like this at this time, or possibly ever. It wasn’t like he had anyone to ask.

Fine. He fed his feelings to the Lonely, cultivated to be as far from his core personality while being as…nourishing as possible. It gobbled his thoughts eagerly, though Martin could sense what he thought might be the Eye watching as the Lonely ate its fill. Voyeur.

The hours until Martin could go to the institute to start his trip passed interminably. He bought his round-trip tickets, paying the surcharge for flexible timing. Peter could eat that. He also packed an overly ambitious rucksack, including snacks, a first aid kit, extra clothes, a few emergency pictures of friends, a pair of kitchen knives, and multiple days’ worth of water. Better to have prepared more than you needed than die in want of a nail.

He took a shower and puttered around his flat until a few minutes before 5am, when he rushed down to take the earliest train to the Institute. As seemed about par for the day, the Tube had many more commuters than he’d hoped. Not so many, however, that when someone accidentally hip checked him into the corner and nearly out the door that he felt bad about taking a seat. It was then, however, that he first really noticed the camera in the car. The one on the far end was bent out of its usual position, and in the opposite direction of his earlier tumble with it. He looked on the other end of the car and—yes, there it was, the other camera was starting right at him as well, red light unblinking. Martin reflexively grasped for the cloak of the Lonely, which did not seem to make the cameras flinch in the slightest, and they still moved when he did. He glared back. Fear god or whichever, the Eye clearly had no concern for personal space, or for taxpayer money.

That was when, of course, someone went and sat on him. Martin stilled immediately. He hadn’t known that he’d become that invisible. It was thrilling in a dark and terrible kind of way, and terribly uncomfortable with how the man had parked his elbow into Martin’s gut and sprawled across his legs, and proceeded to stay there for twenty minutes. The only redeeming part of his entire morning jaunt was that it ended with him at his proper stop at the proper time.

The Institute was empty when he got there, but he was early. The solitude was welcome after the crush of people on the train. He had a key that he could use to let himself in, and the door echoed on its hinges as it closed behind him.

On a whim, he decided to check Elias’s—Peter’s office first. He had a key for that too, and no one besides him and Peter would have any reason to be there. It made sense for Peter to have stashed the weird box in there for him, if he hadn’t taken it to wherever he was staying himself. The stairs didn’t dare creak, but they were still strange in the silence. Seemed about right that a temple to a fear god was uncanny. Didn’t make it more fun to be alone in.

The room was empty, as far as he could tell. Grimacing at the large oil painting that stood behind the desk Martin thought might be Jonah Magnus, Martin booted up the computer and ignored the ever-present feeling of eyes on his neck in favor of checking for the papers that Peter promised to sign while it whirred to life. He settled in for a quiet morning of work, until Peter showed up. It took a couple of hours, which he supposed he could have expected. Nice to see that his hard work was recognized.

Martin still flinched when Peter phased into existence on the other side of the desk, looking chipper and carrying the box under one arm. “Good morning, Martin! Nice to see you here bright and early. Are you ready for your trip?”

Martin made a show of sighing as he saved what he’d been working on. “It’ll be fine.”

“Of course.” Peter put the box down next to Martin’s hand. “Remember, don’t be seen and you will be safe enough. I’ll be expecting you back in two days, or I’ll have to start looking for replacements. And that would involve people, so please don’t make me do that.”

“Fine. Is that all?”

Peter’s lips quirked upwards and he stepped back into the mists, leaving Martin alone again. Well, that was that. Martin logged out, grabbed the box, and headed out, this time saying goodbye to a very confused and mildly concerned Rosie. He did have a train to catch.

Victoria Station was central enough to be easily reached by walking, and Martin did not feel like chancing the bus or what would be a long Tube ride. The train to come would be enough of a risk, and it was easier to signal that a seat was taken there. Once he got to the station, the walk there thankfully uneventful, it wasn’t difficult to obtain his ticket and check the schedule for the next train headed out to Kent. He even had enough time to stop for a desperately needed cuppa, springing for a pastry as well for once. He hadn’t eaten in hours, and Peter was still going to be paying for it, so why not.

And that was when the security camera in the shop swiveled in his direction. He’d seen the tracks, known where it was supposed to be able to look, and chose his table accordingly to prevent being in its sight. At least he knew it was purposeful, even if he didn’t know why. Had Jon come out of his coma with new camera-related Eye powers, and chose to use them to watch him get sat on by middle aged men and buy tea? Or was it the Eye itself, keeping an eye on its Archivist’s wayward assistant, something he could barely think of himself privately? Or some other new player? Basira, gaining something from the way Elias kept calling her “Detective”, or even Elias himself, somehow still clued in despite his jail cell?

Martin grimaced into his tea. He could hide out in the loo for the next fifteen minutes, where surely there were no cameras, or he could drink his tea in peace and ignore their unblinking eyes as he surely would have to on the train as well. He doubted even unplugging or flat out destroying them would solve anything aside from getting him detained by the police, and that was about the last thing he needed right then, right up there with getting taken over by a new flesh hive or burnt to death by whatever or whoever had messed up Jon’s arm. What would he tell them, I’m sorry, there’s an eldritch god of the fear of being watched keeping tabs on me? He’d get sectioned, or Sectioned, and he wasn’t sure which would be worse, honestly.

Useless line of thought, that. He lived with being watched every day. He’d handle it and move on. Of more immediate interest was the artefact he’d been carrying. The box really was quite beautiful, black with gold and silver flecks and patterns, and a smooth ridge of golden inlay on the top. He wondered what it was. Ignorance didn’t save people in this line of work, not that information always helped either. Better was avoidance, and devout loyalty to whichever one chose you back in case it saved you, and it frequently did not.

When Martin went to throw out his pastry bag, he paused. The box was too big for his backpack, but perhaps he should have had some other bag to put it into, or perhaps he should purchase some. Then again, he’d been carting it around with his bare skin touching it for the best part of an hour now, and nothing. The auspicious likes of Mikaele Salesa wouldn’t approve, but it was probably fine enough for Martin Blackwood. Besides, if it was going to kill him just from touching it with his bare skin, Peter would probably have been handling it more carefully himself. He might be fine with risking Martin, but he did seem to have some self-preservation, and Martin could trust that.

Besides, the loudspeaker was ringing for his train to board. He didn’t have time to procure an overpriced statement tote bag from a tourist trap and make his train. And, maybe something in his hindbrain told him that he was right, and a bag wouldn’t be any protection from this particular artefact. That still didn’t mean it was safe.

Reaching his train, Martin decided to skip the first few carriages in hope of finding one that was mostly empty. That turned out to be eminently doable. In the carriage he found himself in was also a smattering of businessmen and businesswomen, pressing on keys on their phones or laptops with focused frowns and the shackles of capitalisms clipped at their collars; two adults already sleeping on each other’s shoulders who looked for all the world like exhausted parents despite the lack of children present, and; what looked to be three Uni students with their noses stuck in various academic texts. Plenty of room to choose a seat away from anyone, and no one to pay attention to him. Perfect.

Martin stuck his ticket on the seat back so others would see it was claimed whether or not they could see him, pushed his bag onto the rack above, and considered doing the same with the box, except that it would make a better target for any potential thief, and the fact that he was tasked with hand-delivering it, which meant protecting it, and he wanted the information they were getting in return. A fear like the Extinction made sense to exist, whether or not it worked the way Peter said it did, and ignorance would not save him if it came for his people.

So, instead of a quiet ride with his nose in a book or an Extinction Statement, Martin found himself again considering the box. He still had no idea what it was, or even whether the box was the artefact itself of just a container for whatever Peter’s _whoever_ wanted. It was beautiful regardless, although Martin didn’t care to trace the designs too closely. He had learned that lesson with the table that had taken Sasha.

It remained cool to the touch, even as Martin looked away, at the landscape out the window, which warped slightly with the train’s speed. He felt around the edges, feeling no lock or hinge keeping the thing closed, although he was pretty sure there was no way to open it as it was. He couldn’t help worrying at the edges of the lid even as he willed himself to leave it alone.

Time for a distraction. Martin kicked off his shoes, shifted so that he was sitting on one leg, and closed his eyes, grasping at the Lonely cloak around him and pushing it away inch by misty inch. There was no one to pay attention to him here anyway, no one to make him feel more connected in a way that Peter could sense. It seemed like a safe enough time, if any time was safe, to try to make himself feel more human. To make his hindbrain realize that he wasn’t giving into the Lonely, for all that he spent enough time connecting to it.

It felt weird more than anything. There was no indication that anything at all changed. The office drones were still poking at their technology, and the school drones at their books. The weight of the train’s CCTV doubled and redoubled, but that might just be it seeing more clearly out of the fog that was supposed to obscure it. Martin grabbed the box and lifted as he shifted again so his leg didn’t numb, when he realized that the box wasn’t just cold, but slightly moist as well. Prodding further, Martin noticed that there was now a small gap between the lid of the box and the body, and he went cold. No, surely he would have noticed…

A small amount of viscous substance began to ooze out from the opening on one side, and Martin shortly found himself occupied by scooping it back into the box. When he gave up on getting every bit of it and pressed the hole closed, another side began to leak fluid.

That’s when he began to panic. What if he had ruined the artefact and the deal? What if the fluid was now contaminated, all because he’d done something stupid? What if the fluid had contaminated _him,_ and he was just flat out done for anyway? No, it wouldn’t be so simple as all that, he was sure of it, but there was no universe in which this was a good thing.

As a fourth side of the box grew a hole, Martin grasped frantically for the veil of the Lonely. Surely that would have to be of some help in this mess, if only to keep other people from noticing his sudden and messy demise. He didn’t want anyone else to see this, and potentially be drawn in. The pressure from the cameras intensified as he kept losing this battle against the contents of the box, but he couldn’t spare the thought to glare at them. He pulled at the Lonely that much more, but it couldn’t stop the cameras no matter how much effort he put in, and if he somehow got too far in without the artefact, then someone might find it. No, better to just figure out how to _fix this_.

Something was growing up his arm. Made from the substance inside the artefact, and more solid than he’d expect for that, was some kind of protrusion. If pressed, Martin couldn’t have named the color it was, only that it was slick, growing, and inevitable. A second tentacle began to grow on his other arm, and only then did Martin’s hold on his gibbering terror begin to falter. At that same moment, the tentacles began to grow like he’d injected them with steroids.

Oh, of course. Fear. He wondered which fear this fed as he sat there, completely lost on how to deal with any of what was happening except that he needed to keep calm and unseen.

Was this what Peter had meant by a test? Keeping himself hidden even when something like potential murder-tentacles were distracting him?

There were now six tentacles, one sprouted from each side of the box. Martin thought the box was still there, inside the wriggling mass on top of him, and wondered at how much more mass had come out of it than it looked like it could contain.

He didn’t make any noise. Maybe outsiders could save him, but probably not—and he just didn’t want them to _see_ , even the cameras he doubted he could hide from _._ And that was still better than the urge he was suppressing to make them all just _go away._ Even if he could do that, he still needed the artefact intact for the exchange.

As he watched, the rest of the tentacles grew from little nubs into coiled things that he’d stopped being able to estimate the lengths of at a full meter, and they were definitely longer.

If being afraid fed it…Martin tried to distract himself by figuring out which fear this thing fed. He was definitely scared of being watched or seen, but that had more to do with his own foibles and public decency than an innate quality of the tentacles. If he’d seen this in a locked room on his own… Another Stranger artefact perhaps? This was definitely strange and unsettling, even if it wasn’t skin or anything resembling human but not quite making it. Was it the Web, some mix of how an animal might view a spider and his loss of control of the situation?

Two tentacles wound their way down his legs, leaving his clothes damp and sticking in a way that made him glad he had more packed, and bringing him back to the present. The things just seemed curious, but there was nothing to say that whatever was making them slick wasn’t digestive enzymes or worse. Maybe it was the End? The few statements they had for that one had some tentacles, although it didn’t seem the type to be active…and the thing wasn’t killing him yet.

Small mercies, maybe.

One of the remaining tentacles began to frame his face, strangely soft with what might be a sucker at the end. It settled itself against one side of his face, over his hair, and pressed a small bit of suction against his other cheek. Almost affectionate. He might have pet it if his hands weren’t still occupied. It kept creeping around his collarbones, suctioning his shirt as far off of his skin as it would stretch, and anyone could guess where that was going. Martin glanced back around the carriage, but his efforts were paying off so far. Besides the camera, nothing was looking in his direction.

No, wait— A conductor was making his way down the aisle, and Martin’s blood ran cold. Unlike the others there, this person would be looking for a person to be in this seat. He definitely didn’t want this stranger to see him, and being molested by supernatural artefact tentacles that were supposed to be his charge, not the other way around. _Don’t see me,_ he begged. _I am not for you. I’m not going to interact with you. Please leave me alone._

And then the conductor was there. Martin didn’t breathe as the man noted the ticket in the seat and the bag in the overhead…eyes passing over Martin unseeing. There was a flash of blue in otherwise brown eyes that had to be the lighting, and the man’s eyes passed over him a second time, before shrugging and taking the ticket to be punched and replaced.

A cool wave of relief chased the goosebumps as the conductor moved on. Martin relaxed with the knowledge that apparently his efforts were holding stronger than he’d thought. Past the fear of being seen, he moved on to the fear he felt that this would go on until he was entirely consumed one way or another. Maybe the thing was of the Eye, and now that it had known all of him, it would remove itself. More likely, he needed a plan to escape it, either by ensuring he wasn’t feeding it enough to be worth the effort, or finding some way to give it what it wanted in such a way that he kept right on living.

Martin turned back to the thing in his lap and did his best to placate it as he freed his hands enough to start pulling at the buttons. The tentacles pressed against bare skin, the dull cold making him shiver despite the blush that was trying to spread on every bit of him and his familiarity with the Lonely’s cold. This was different—it felt like the kind of cold that would eventually match his temperature, or make him match it, not the kind that wanted to suck his whole being apart like the Rainbow Fish in a sea of mists.

Still, this was just—he was on a _public train._ And yet, what other choice did he have? It wasn’t like he could make it as far as a loo. The buttons came off.

Saving the shirt turned out to be a wash anyway. The tentacles on his arms split the seams while he was distracted, not wanting to move even so much as to let him take it off properly. Darn it, but he liked that shirt, and didn’t have the time to go shopping for clothes besides. It would be rude if it wasn’t just acting within its nature, and might still be besides. There was no point in getting angry with them, Martin reasoned with himself. He just needed to remember himself, and ride the rest out until it was done. Surely, this was an outcome that had been prepared for, if not by him.

He shut his eyes as the tentacle on his face grew closer to them, and was immediately struck by a terror that if he couldn’t see that the others in the carriage weren’t looking, that they then would be able to see him. If his hands weren’t again pinned, he’d be scraping at the one on his face. He thrashed against it, but he could barely move, and he still didn’t want to make too much of a ruckus and actually be seen.

Just as he finally began to relax, the sucker moved over his nose and down to his lips. Either he hadn’t noticed how powerful the thing was or it hadn’t felt the need to show its strength, but his lips were sucked together and shut, and he couldn’t help tasting it. It was strangely numbing to his tongue though he couldn’t say if it was the cold or some biochemical agent. It distracted from the sucker that had found his belly button and was curiously poking at it. Or the fact that the ones on his legs had found the warm skin underneath his trousers and were most of the way to splitting them too.

By the time the fabric split he was expecting it, but the thought of being mostly naked on a public train made his body attempt to flinch. He pulled at the Lonely again, no longer really caring about trying to keep himself apart from it in any way if it would keep people from seeing him like this. He had no idea if it worked, but hoped it did.

The thing was just acting according to its nature, Martin tried to comfort himself, as even his briefs went the way of the rest of his clothing. It wanted warmth, and if he’d done it right then he was the only warm thing the thing could sense. No one else would know what was going on in his corner of the universe, and not even the thing would ever have the full story, whether or not it had the cognition to understand it.

Martin tried to focus on that as the tentacles moved him around, pulling him up off of the seat first by his shoulders, and then supporting the rest of his body thankfully before the arms dislocated. That would be an ugly one to explain to any A&E doctor.

The one over his eyes moved away, but Martin kept them closed against the bright light that hurt his eyes even through the lids. His limbs were not responding to him anymore, and the tentacles seemed pleased enough by this, loosening around him. He had just enough self-awareness left to be worried by that development, although he was quickly distracted by the gentle movement up his sides. He bit his cheek bloody to keep from making any noise while he got used to it.

It felt _good._ Was it just the way Martin hadn’t had any real human contact in so long, that his skin hunger was just so much that even this felt good?

He finally opened his eyes, blinking away the last of the afterimages. A tentacle swiped back over them, stealing his tears although the stickiness made him more careful opening them the next time. He could feel that his eyelashes had gummed together uncomfortably, they stuck when he tried to move them.

He couldn’t hold in a gasp when the tentacles struck again, winding up the backs of his twitching legs until they reached the sensitive knees and thighs, going over and over those again, before returning to his feet, and even his strangely-sensitive calves. Maybe he was just hyper-aware of what was happening to him. Or maybe he was just indulging in a bit of denial.

Either way, that was about the point when, despite the cold and the fear and the embarrassment, Martin felt himself begin to become aroused. He didn’t know why he was surprised, but his heart was racing with it.

He’d seen enough porn and was supernaturally relaxed enough to be more resigned than anything to the way one tentacle was poking at his ass. Maybe if it had hurt he would be able to work up more alarm, but he couldn’t prevent it and honestly he had better things to do.

At least the slickness it was covered in made the stretch slightly easier. It went slowly, mostly because Martin did his best to push it away if it attempted to speed up in any way. It did try to once anyway, and Martin did manage to kick at it. The rest of the tentacles squeezed in retaliation and gentled, as if to apologize. They tickled and pressed at him as the one inside made its way further and further, and he was going to be horrifically backed up after this, wasn’t he? _Sorry, supernatural tentacle artefact, I didn’t know we were going to be doing this today, so I haven’t prepared and you’re in for quite a mess._ Bloody _hells_.

The thing found his prostate, and Martin twitched. It was pressure, and it didn’t feel bad, but it wasn’t doing much for him either. He couldn’t help twitching away from it when it tried again, and thankfully it stopped. Figured him out that much more, he guessed, feeling for once grateful for the learning element the things had. It began to push in and out more shallowly, and Martin let that sensation happen. It felt pleasant enough, and much better than the things getting curious in the kind of way that would leave his bones stress-tested and dislocated or broken.

The tentacles curled around his neck then, sucking hickeys all over. _No_ , they seemed to be saying. _We don’t want to hurt you. We just want for you to like us. We want you to be ours_.

For the first time, Martin tried to wield his Loneliness against the tentacles, because there was a line where things really just weren’t worth it anymore. The time for that must have been before they were stuck halfway up his digestive track and the rest of his body covered in its secretions because it didn’t work. Fair enough, he figured, but not useful.

In the meanwhile, the sensations were pleasant enough. Enough stimulation in the right places could make a human react no matter what they really felt, he reminded himself. It didn’t stop the affection the things were showing him from warming him, more close contact than he’d had from anything in even longer than the months he’d been working with Peter. Maybe years. He’d held himself apart for so long…

He’d gotten almost comfortable when arousal began to build again. The tentacles had warmed some, and the pressure and heat sank into his muscles. They played with him besides, running over his nipples and down his sides, pushing between his legs and still pumping inside him. He knew he’d gotten in deep when the pressure around his prostate actually started feeling good. He let the feeling grow within him, bigger and sharper until his cock was dribbling onto the tentacles down there and he had to close his eyes against even the slight stimuli of the light.

The aloneness of being cloaked recategorized itself in his head as not having to share the tentacles, and he nodded because that made sense; he was theirs. When one found itself pressing over his lips, he took it into his mouth as the one place it had not yet explored. It worried over the bitten cheek even as Martin’s toes curled and he tried to suck in a desperate breath around it, vision spotting at the edges with lack of air.

The pleasure lasted for a long moment before the train began to slow, and Martin heard a station announcement he couldn’t quite parse. Swanley, maybe? That was only a third of the way into the journey, surely it had been much longer? He tried to focus long enough to hear it, but the tentacles drew him back, anxious for his attention. He gave in.

He was barely aware as someone settled in the seat across from him. Something in the back of his head gibbered about the thought-sensation of their eyes on him, so like the cameras that it couldn’t be natural, and the idea that if it were the Eye, they were seeing him naked and molested by squirming tentacles. But the Eye wasn’t intruding on him further, and made no move to bring him away from the things that were consuming him. As per fucking usual, completely useless.

There was a _trace_ of bitterness that made him relax into the tentacles’ possessiveness as the train started back up. He was no stranger to being known, even if he hadn’t always been aware of it or applied it to artefact tentacles. He’d never thought it was all that arousing, but it might be weirder if he didn’t have weird kinks and complexes after everything.

He pushed the middle of one tentacle over his eyes and decided to let them keep going. He wondered idly if the tentacles would like Jon as well. He liked Jon…

The longer he sucked on the one in his mouth, the slower his thoughts ran, the more present his emotions were. The others, they pushed his endorphins up and whispered their love to him. How could Martin remain unaffected? How could he not come a second time, quicker and brighter, as fluid gushed into his throat.

Martin was definitely losing touch with the outside world. If not for the feeling of watchers, he thought he might forget to keep others from seeing him, but even that was not enough to overpower the feeling that kept him suckling. For once, he actually felt good. He knew it wouldn’t last, that if anything else he wouldn’t let it, but what harm could it do to let himself feel just that much?

He didn’t notice as the train stopped once, and then twice, and then three times, shedding passengers as it went along. He was too focused on the way the artefact was responding to him. When it noticed his jaw getting sore, it removed that tentacle, though Martin couldn’t help but to follow it. It felt weird to be empty, and he didn’t like it. The others squeezed in comfort as that last one thinned back again, and he got a fresh taste of the silky slickness.

Immediately after, the one pumping into his ass withdrew suddenly, which nearly felt like the greater loss. He felt himself clenching around nothing, and it ached more than the presence had. This one he had a harder time following, with how the other tentacles were still curled around his limbs. He sucked at the one in his mouth hard, and then bit it in his frustration.

Well, they didn’t like _that._ The one curled around his cock retreated quickly, right before he was going to come again, leaving behind the curdling feeling of a ruined orgasm. The one in his mouth pulsed big, too big for him to handle. He thought it might burst through his throat. He certainly wasn’t going to bite that, but he also wasn’t going to be breathing either. He barely noticed how the ones wrapped around his limbs and torso stopped playing, instead becoming more like brands in the process. He thought he’d been held fast, but he hadn’t realized how much it had let him squirm on it.

And then, just as he felt like he would collapse, the tentacle thinned again, so quickly that he choked on just that much more emptiness, and withdrew. There was a long second where he felt like he could scream from the abandonment, and then he was full again, and they curled around him in apology.

They didn’t like it if he tried to hurt them, they told him, and Martin understood. He doubted he would much like it either if they hurt him. His body did its best to convulse at the sudden stimulation. His vision whited out, and darkened again as the tentacles blindfolded him again, in what was becoming a familiar trend. It was almost fast enough for him to tell that the world was becoming fuzzy at the edges in a way he’d never experienced before.

The tentacles soon distracted him once more. He counted the six there usually were, all present and accounted for and focused on him, but there was a new sensation, thinner and wetter than the others. A seventh tentacle, something new. He wondered why it hadn’t just made more tentacles earlier if that was something it could do, when it made its presence known by curling around a nipple and pulling.

It was almost strange—his nipples had never been _that_ sensitive, but just as soon as he’d had that thought it was whisked away by the sheer amount of other stimulation. He would have thought he was wrung out by now, or at least dehydrated. He’d had to have come half a dozen times, though he didn’t think he was ejaculating much by this point. Almost as if in response to his thoughts, his cock dribbled just a bit, and he could feel the seventh tentacle growing. It felt—good. It felt right.

He knew he wanted to be alone with them, but a thought passed through his mind—surely seven was enough that they could play with Jon too if he was here. Surely Martin would be able to convince him to join in on this pleasure, if he were here. _More friends?_ He asked the tentacles.

They squeezed, and Martin wasn’t sure what to make of it. _No,_ they said. _Not yet. You’re our new friend, only ours._

Martin’s thoughts were scattered and slipshod but that didn’t feel right. He didn’t belong to only one person or thing. That was why he was able to keep going. The tentacles were good to him, but could he really be theirs alone?

Martin began to struggle, even as the tentacles held him fast, a threat slashed across his throat. He relaxed his body inch by inch, if only because he had no other choice, and tried to collect his thoughts. He wasn’t quite sure how he’d gotten here, but if thinking of Jon helped…well. If he could just shut his eyes and imagine that it was Jon watching him, with those sharp looks he gave problematic statements, like he needed to untangle a mystery even more than he needed tea…

Thinking of Jon like that reminded him of the cameras. Just as soon as he thought of them, he felt the weight of being watched again, even if he couldn’t see it. He hoped it was just the cameras, and just the Eye.

But the Eye wouldn’t do anything, would it? It hadn’t saved him from Peter, and it hadn’t saved him from this. It just watched, and occasionally turned up with a tape recorder to listen in if it thought he was doing something interesting. He wondered if there was a tape recorder here now, tucked away under the seat or in his bag or somewhere more esoteric. No, the Eye wouldn’t save him now, and even if Jon could see this, he couldn’t help. For the first time, Martin actively hoped that it wasn’t Jon watching through the cameras. He didn’t know how he’d look him in the eyes again otherwise, if that was even a good idea these days.

What else was there? The Lonely? Martin thought he’d pushed his luck with the Lonely as far as it could go. He’d put everything he’d had into keeping himself from being seen. How far were they from Kent? His thoughts began to slip away as the tentacles began to move once more, and this time he fought it. Letting them do what they wanted wasn’t working, clearly.

The Lonely it was. If the tentacles wanted to—absorb him into them, become part of a whole, then clearly he had to pull himself apart from them, apart from all of it. The tentacles curled into his skin like they were trying to curl under, become him, and he wouldn’t stand for it. He just wouldn’t.

He wasn’t sure he had more than one shot at this. He channeled his rejection of the togetherness of the tentacles and the weight of being Seen and pulled himself apart from it all with all his might.

The world went fuzzy around him, and Martin thought he’d lost. And then he realized that he was achingly empty again, and that he could move. He opened his eyes, surprised that he could, and was met with a cool grayness he thought might be layers of fog and mist. There was a moment of panic that he wasn’t in the train anymore, and what if the tentacles tried to consume someone else, but that was muted, a far off possibility. It hardly mattered, here.

The same happened when Martin thought of his mission, which he didn’t particularly understand the urgency of anyway. Peter would barely notice his absence, he was sure, and there was no one else who might even look for him. None of them were his concern. He didn’t have to worry about them either.

Then Martin began to panic, as best as anyone could panic within the Lonely, because no, this was not better than the tentacles if he still lost himself there. He tried to yell out, but found that his mouth wouldn’t move by his own will. For once, he found himself missing the sensation of being Seen. He shut his eyes, and imagined Jon watching him from the seat across that he _knew_ had to exist.

And just like that, Martin found himself back on the train.

The tentacles were gone. They were the first thing he checked for. The box’s ridge was slightly more pronounced now, he thought, but he couldn’t even be sure of that. Maybe it hadn’t changed at all. Either way, he wasn’t going to touch the thing.

His clothing was slightly easier. It was strange getting dressed on a moving train full of people, and he was still pulling up his trousers when the train pulled into Kent. He didn’t even have time to knot his shoes as he pushed out onto the platform.

After everything the last hour had brought, Martin had half a mind to push himself into the biggest crowd he could find as long as he could until it dispersed. But also, even the other people on the platform felt like too much. He was overstimulated by the feeling of being watched through the cameras, which had yet to abate, and by the intrusion of people after that moment of perfect emptiness.

It was the Corruption’s, he decided. The nasty consuming love angle sold it. That was too close, and if the thing had been into polyamory then who knows where he would be. He wondered if this Lukas wanted it for a sex toy, or to knock off some enemy. Either way, he’d be happy to have it out of his hands. He’d wrapped it in the remains of his old shirt, and went down to find a taxi.

* * *

The exchange had gone smoothly as it could, and Martin had traded the box for a pen in a fancy case that he knew better than to open himself once the Lukas had closed it, and a case full of papers he hadn’t looked though. He had just decided that being curious might help the residual grayness when his phone rang.

Huh. He didn’t realize that Peter Lukas knew how a cell phone worked. He picked up.

“Martin!” Peter chirped. “I’m so glad to hear that you got to Moorland House okay. I trust that your trip went well then.”

 _Well_ was not a word Martin would have used. _Horribly_ was more accurate, or maybe _horrifying._ “Sure.”

“Good! Now, Bethany said that you agreed to stay overnight. That’s fine, just make sure you have a ticket back for tomorrow. I’m sure it will be just as educational an experience for you.”

 _Gods, I hope not._ “Fine. Is there anything else?”

“Not tonight! Just make sure to get a good night’s rest.”

“Okay. Thanks, Peter.” Martin hung up the phone before Peter could respond. He didn’t want to talk anymore.

What _had_ Peter’s game been in all of this? To isolate Martin and make him draw on the Lonely, like he had? To give him an experience that would set him aside from the remaining Archives crew, despite the fact that they all knew about the Fears now? To push him further away from Jon?

The worst was that they all would probably happen. It wasn’t like he was feeling the warm and fuzzies for anything that felt warm and fuzzy for him at the moment. It would be all too easy to sink back into the Lonely now that he’d found it. He wondered what the Lukases here would think about that, and decided not to mention it to them. He’d be leaving come morning anyway, might as well get some sleep.

* * *

_Epilogue:_

Elias smirked at Peter as he walked in to the best Scotland Yard had to offer. It might even be construed as a peace offering that he’d had the guard route him through the solitary confinement area on his way through. Not the most direct path, however much benefit it may bring.

“Peter, how nice of you to come visit me.”

“Don’t talk like you didn’t make it happen like this, Elias.”

Elias huffed, and waited for the guards to retreat out of listening distance before turning towards Peter. “I didn’t, in fact. You were the one to arrange this side bet because I am the only one you know both able and willing to watch it happen. No need to act otherwise, you were never very good in situations like these.”

Inhale. “Fine.”

Elias waited, eyebrow raised in exaggerated inquiry as Peter stood there, fighting the urge to wipe his hands on his pants. “Peter.” If Elias was going to make him _ask_ for his answers…

“Fine. Did anyone see him on the train?”

“Even after the artefact activated, he was quite good at keeping himself apart from the sweaty masses, although there was one point he was choosing to lower his defenses.”

“I win then.”

“I suppose,” Elias conceded, with only slight distaste. They both knew how these games went. “You will have your map when you demand it, not when I believe it is time, as were the terms. You will have all the time you need to get your hooks into him, although I doubt that there is much further to go, even if the artefact you gave him did nearly consume him. Getting your hands dirty, now? I look forward to the resolution of that bet as well.”

“No, for once between us my hands are the clean ones. If Martin had done as I suggested and kept away from others for the entirety of his trip, then the artefact shouldn’t have posed him any harm.”

“And what a show that was. I almost want to thank you for it. Maybe I will get you the recordings, to view at your leisure. Would you like that? I see you would. Well. Don’t say I didn’t warn you, Peter.”

“Goodbye, Elias.” Peter turned away.

“Don’t chafe yourself, Peter. We’ll be seeing each other again soon.” Elias wouldn’t be so crass as to shout, but he had nothing against getting in the last word as Peter walked away.

That the artefact had activated was a blow, but, upon later review of the tapes, Peter had to admit that the opportunity was a net gain, considering how Martin had slipped into the Lonely in the end. He wondered if it was worth coaxing the man onto another train ride, to test him properly at Moorland House, but no, that wouldn’t help in the Panopticon. Peter’s eyes were firmly on the prize. It was a shame that he’d grown fond of Martin, but what was one man to saving the world?

Maybe he’d leave part of the tapes for the Archivist, before his ritual went off. The way that one felt about Martin was quite nourishing, and let no one say that Peter Lukas was anything but generous when it didn’t harm him to be so.


End file.
